George had mysteriously disappeared, but I didn't have the time to wonder where he was. He made some joke about going off to get stinking drunk...
Seven p.m. rolled around all too soon, but I arrived to Tamara's lawyer's office right on time. The contracts were ready. All ten pages of them. I examined them briefly, wishing dearly that I had more time to take them home and have George glance at them for me. Such was not the case. I took a pen and gave the paper my John Hancock.
It was done.
I was then handed a travel itinerary, as I handed over my birth certificate and passport. Tamara said that the Prince was adamant on knowing the age of the girls whom he invited to the palace. Other girls had apparently lied in the past. Thus, the recent policy of age verification by way of birth certificate was strictly enforced.
As I mentioned before, I was on the older side of acceptability. At 26, I was borderline. No girls older than 27 were invited to Brunei. Again, I think that I was invited due to my very minor celebrity status – star of Dinosaur Island.
The lawyer told me that I should arrive at the airport two hours early, and that my ticket (first class) would be waiting for me at the check-in counter. All other details of my journey would be forthcoming once I landed in Brunei. He wished me good luck and good voyage, and everyone shook hands, congratulating me on my success.
My success! I laughed inside. Some man 15,000 miles away thought I looked pretty, and was willing to pay $22,500 a week for my prettiness. Still, I wasn't complaining. I figured I would stay for six weeks, then come home to George, a few dollars richer, and no worse for wear.
As it turned out, I would not touch foot in the United States for another six months.
And what I would witness and experience in Brunei would remain in my memory for the rest of my life.
***
George was not dealing well with my decision to leave. He felt that there was something villainous about some Sultan driving a wedge between us. He suddenly felt that White Slavery was alive and well in the Western World, and that I, Aphrodite Antonia Dorian, was the unwitting star. Consensual White Slavery at that. George had taken to equating the Bruneians as evil Klingons from another planet.
In those first few moments after we got back to my apartment from the airport, George asked me to reconsider. He felt his objections were sound. He didn't give a damn if there was a legal contract binding the entire affair – I was going someplace 15,000 miles away, to live in a goddamned harem! He tried to forbid me to leave.
But I was adamant. George decided to bring out the big guns.
He began to beg.
"Don't go. Please."
"Don't you trust me?" I asked.
"Do you honestly think you're going over there to do nothing more than attend a nightly party? Please, think about this!"
My reasoning to go was by far more logical than his reasoning for me to stay. It was an adventure; a chance to see a foreign land, meet exciting new people. There was also the money. Biggest reason of all...
After half an hour of sometimes heated debate, George resigned himself to my decision. He told me frankly that he was going to the nearest pub to immerse his grief in Tequila.
Tom Bergens, a friendly neighborhood Irish Bar, was only five blocks away from my apartment, which was on the fringe of Beverly Hills. It was around one in the afternoon. George entered and ordered two shots of Patron. Killed them both inside of sixty seconds. Ordered two more. Then began to nurse scotch for the rest of the day.
He came back to my apartment sometime after eight.
"You smell like booze, honey," I said.
He said he felt like dog meat. I was holding a folder and some papers in my hand.
"The contracts?" he said.
"Yes. I knew you'd want to look at them."
He sobered up instantly. He took the folder from me and began to read.
George looked for language that reeked of sleaze and creepiness. He looked for tricky loopholes, legal jargon that could be misconstrued by innocent girls, etc., etc. He read all ten pages of the damn thing, but he could find nothing that was even remotely despicable, forget about even mildly suspicious.
He continued reading and muttering: "They were clever, these Bruneians, these Klingons from Southeast Asia. Of course, the contracts would be squeaky clean. What were they supposed to say? We're paying for sex, endless amounts of sex, dated hereof in the County of Los Angeles, State of California? The term "White Slavery" as described herein, shall mean strictly, "we own your body and soul," please sign on the dotted line? Fucking, as defined herein, shall include penetration, copulation, fornication, fellatio –"
"Please, George," I interrupted his diatribe. He stopped muttering aloud, but his eyes continued racing over the contracts.
We went to dinner. With the contracts. He read them again. And re-read them. I watched him as if he were some unstable, rabid pit bull quietly slobbering, eyes glazed – as if he might just suddenly bolt from his seat and attack something.
We got home and George promptly passed out. It had been a long day of foolish drinking. I, on the other hand, stayed up all night packing. George awoke, feeling more depressed than ever. But he handled the depression courageously: He walked into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of 12 year scotch, and poured himself a drink.
I slept in late. I awoke to my newly-formed alcoholic boyfriend, who was on the terrace, staring out at the Los Angeles skyline.
"I leave at 11 p.m. tonight," I said. "Singapore Airlines. First Class."
George nodded. He of course knew this from the night before. He had glanced at my travel itinerary.
"Excited?" he asked.
"Nervous," I admitted. "You're drinking awfully early, aren't you?" I asked. The worried girlfriend, for the last time.
"Heck, what's early?" he quipped and continued to sip the Chivas.
"Thought you had editing to do today?"
"I called the editor. He can live without me for a day."
I kissed him and put his head on my shoulder and we stood there, wordlessly, looking out into the morning.
The day passed quickly. Too quickly. George helped me with last minute preparations: having my keys duplicated, running a few chores, picking up dry cleaning, whatever.
8:30 p.m. rolled around all too soon.
George, now booze free, drove me to the airport, Los Angeles International, and stopped in front of Singapore Airlines.
"Do you want to park and walk up with me?" I asked.
George thought about it. Then sighed and leaned in and kissed me. A long, luxurious kiss.
"Why prolong the agony?" he said softly. "I love you."
I smiled and laughed, touching his cheek and kissing him again. "I'll call you from Japan. That's our first layover. You sure you're okay with this?"
"Fine," he said. "Just grand. Couldn't be better. Give my best to the Master."
"Stop it," I said, and then turned serious. "I love you. I'll see you in six weeks. You won't even know I've been gone, knowing the way you work."
"Don't go," he said again, a last ditch effort. I kissed him again, then got out of the car.
At the time, I thought I would be gone for six weeks.
Instead, I did not return to the U.S. for six months.
***
The tickets were waiting for us at the Singapore First Class Section Counter. Our names had been spelled perfectly. Kayla had arrived first, and she was standing next to three other young women whom I remembered seeing at our meeting with Mr. Jan in the Beverly Hills Hotel. They, too, were going to Brunei. A last minute decision to invite them was made. I remembered thinking at the time that the last-minute decision making policies of the Sultan (or whomever, among his entourage) gave new meaning to the concept. As of yesterday, it had been only Kayla and I.
The three other girls were Dalia, Cathy and Sue. Kayla took me aside and told me she knew only two of them, Dalia and Sue. Dalia was a freelance make-up artist and part time model.
She was around five feet tall, with a perfect body; I found myself staring and wondering how many hours of gym time she put in daily. Her breasts were real, too (she took the time to tell me this during the flight over; real breasts in Hollywood, you see, are rare). Sue was a model who was, according to Kayla, battling a drug addiction. Sue was hoping that leaving the country – and the drug-friendly Los Angeles – would help her beat her addiction, as well as allow her to become financially independent. Frighteningly, she was the most gorgeous of the three girls who would be my companions for the next 20 hours. Almost six feet tall, her legs seemed to stretch from her perfect ass to next Tuesday. Her diet must have consisted of mustard and lettuce for the past ten years. Her eyes were the color of emeralds. Again, I felt warts and hairs growing out of every pore; I chanced a glance down at my terribly natural and non-perky breasts and felt momentarily depressed. My depression turned to one of fury against the Almighty when I considered last of all, Cathy – who was, according to Kayla, an unknown quantity. She was my size, a natural blonde, with tanned, muscular legs and a figure men would refer to in the colloquial as "fucking hot." She was all woman and knew it. She caught me gazing at her in our first five minutes together, and turned her nose up at me. I was not offended, but I again got an attack of the anxiety syndrome I refer to affectionately as "Mud Girl of the Appalachia." In fact, I believe I said only two words to Cathy during my entire stay in Brunei. Just not a friendly girl.
We introduced ourselves, chatted while we were confirmed, then promptly headed for the Singapore First Class Bar Club, a lovely place where they feed you and serve you champagne before flight departure. Tamara, our agent, called the lounge and spoke with each of us very briefly. She informed us that once we landed in Brunei, we would be met by representatives of the Royal Family, and then taken to our quarters within the palace grounds. She said there would be no language barrier – all of the Sultan's people spoke perfect English, as well as Malay, the native language of Brunei and Malaysia in general. (This proved later to be an overstatement – in fact, the guards and most of the Sultanate spoke only passable English).
At 10:30 p.m., half an hour before flight departure, the girls and I boarded the plane, giggling and tipsy. The stewardesses, all beautiful, porcelain-like Japanese, Chinese or Malay ladies, smiled continuously and escorted us to our seats. They were very patient with us. A gentleman nearby, I think he was British, asked me where we were going. I replied we were heading for Japan, though I was tempted to be funny by saying, maybe:
"Well, sir, actually my girlfriends and I are heading out to a godforsaken little Island called Borneo to join a harem for the richest man on the planet. Sounds fun, huh?"
I sobered up as soon as the airplane left the ground, if only momentarily. I looked down at the twinkling lights of Los Angeles, of home, wondering if indeed this had been a wise decision. The plane turned to the right, heading north up the California coast. I stared out into the night, in the direction of Burbank and North Hollywood, where I estimated George's apartment to be. I closed my eyes and gave a silent kiss to the window.
Don't worry, sweetheart.
This will work out.
I followed up with a prayer for that very outcome.
***
Good rule of thumb whenever you're flying for over five hours anywhere: don't drink too much. Reason: your feet and hands begin to swell and it's very uncomfortable.
The longest haul of our voyage was between L.A. and Tokyo. Nine long hours. It was impossible for any of us to sleep. We were all too wired. We continued to order wine and champagne. I know I must sound like an alcoholic, but I'm really not; it's just that we were all nervous, and liquor tended to take the edge off.
Brunei.
Now only a day away . . .
Kayla and I continued to bond. She was talking a lot about O.J. Simpson. Many girls had dated him, many claimed special kinship with him (or had secret knowledge of him); Kayla really had been a lover and close confidante to Simpson. She was a sweet girl who happened to have been very fond of O.J.. For the record, she believed that O.J. was not guilty, that someone else had actually killed his ex-wife and her friend, Ronald Goldman. The way Kayla talked about him, I found it hard to reconcile the O.J. she described with the one I had heard about in the news for many months. She was passionate in her defense of him, and I admired her for that.
I often talked to George about the O.J. Simpson affair. From day one, he believed that O.J. was guilty as hell. He cited the evidence, the trail of blood, etc., etc. We sometimes quarreled on the subject; my strongest defense for him was my association with Kayla. She believed so wholeheartedly, based on her personal experience with him, that he was innocent.
A movie came on shortly after my conversation with Kayla: I was feeling a little sleepy during the movie, and I turned to look around the First Class Cabin. I noticed Sue – the drug addict model, according to Kayla. She was sitting alone, sipping a drink that resembled a bloody Mary.
I left my seat and went over to the empty one next to hers.
"Mind if I join you?" I asked.
"Sure," she said. "I've seen this shit before."
I nodded. She was clearly in a funky mood.
"I remember you from the Hotel," I said neutrally.
"I remember you, too," she said. "You had the biggest tits of all of us. Fuck!"
Sue, you must understand, loved saying fuck on most any occasion. Fuck, and its close and loving cousin, shit.
"But they were nice tits," she said quickly. "Shit, are they real?"
"Shit, yes, they're real," I said, trying to joke.
"Fuck," Sue said, missing the joke completely, and sucked the rest of the mysterious red drink dry. "So, you know we're going out here to fuck, right?"
I held my breath. And for a split second, I wanted to kill my agent, Tamara.
"No," I said instead, very quietly, "I didn't know that."
"You came through Tamara, right?"
"Yes."
"She nodded a lot, right?"
I just stared at Sue. The blood drained out of my face. Sue must have recognized my expression of dismay.
"It's okay. My friend Brittany told me about the gig. She lived out in Brunei for two years. When she asked Tamara if there was fucking involved, all Tamara did was nod..."
Ahem.
"Really?" I said. Loving thoughts of losing my bladder winked in and out of my conscious mind. This news was dreadful.
"Sure. But Brittany came back a millionaire. Sure, she had to fuck now and then. But as long as you fuck, suck, swallow and smile - things are cool."
"Wait a minute," I said. "Having sex wasn't part of the equation with this gig, according to the contract."
Sue looked at me like I was a complete fool. "Really," she said snidely. "And just what, in the name of sunny Jesus, did you think you were coming here to do? Knit?"
I stared at Sue. I wanted to slap her. But her stare bore into my own stare . . . and I saw a germ of truth. Suddenly, I wanted to cry. I wanted to go running into the cockpit and beg the pilots to turn the goddamned plane around and head back for L.A.
"I know. You thought this was the rainbow and the pot of gold. Some fucking leprechaun comes your way and gives you money, free of charge. The shah was nothing more than a fairy godfather." Her tone was absent of any malice or contempt. In a very crass way, she summed up exactly what I was expecting, obviously very naively.
My blood started to freeze in my veins. She continued: "Hell, I've fucked enough losers for no money in the past, might as well fuck for some real cash. Know what I mean?"
I nodded quickly. Just like Tamara, my agent, had nodded. Silent, tacit agreement. I felt like the worst coward on the planet. But I was in shock. Did Sue know something I didn't? Was she right? Were we going over there as sexual cattle?
"I like your tits," Sue said once again. "Nice."
And then she fell asleep.
Sue was clearly a problem child, but her words scorched m
e to my very core. I vowed to call Tamara as soon as the airplane landed. Obviously, I had been lied to...
Before we knew it, we were landing.
Tokyo.
I don't know what the other girls did, but Kayla and I rushed for the nearest phones. Kayla spent half an hour on the phone with O.J.; I called George to let him know where I was and that I was fine. Then I tried to reach Tamara; I got her answering machine. I hung up. I was angry, but I wasn't going to leave a pissy message on her machine.
It was night time in Tokyo, which meant it was close to noon in Los Angeles. George, of course, wasn't home; he was in post-production – I spent fifteen minutes, between George and Tamara, listening to answering machines. I left a message for George: I told him I had landed . . . and that I loved him.
I had eaten (and drank) so much on the airplane that I didn't feel like getting a snack. Moreover, my conversation with Sue left me nauseous. I boarded the plane again as soon as possible.
I did not recount my discussion with Sue to Kayla. I did not wish to worry her. She viewed the Brunei expedition as a sure, harmless thing. As, in fact, I had, until just recently.
Singapore was nine hours away still. After another drink, I fell promptly asleep.
I wish I could say my sleep was peaceful.
***
We arrived in Singapore at 3 a.m. It was still dark out. Tamara, our agent, had arranged for rooms at the Marco Polo Hotel in Singapore proper since our layover was seven hours. Kayla went to her room and called O.J.; according to her, he was still very depressed. She was worried about him. I called George, and tried to sleep some more, but like the other girls, I was far too high-strung. I tried once more to contact Tamara, but got her machine again.
Brunei was now only twelve hours away.
It was hard to form an opinion about Singapore, especially in the middle of the night, and by taxi. Needless to say, the weather was very humid, typically tropical. And the streets . . . spotless. Not even a shred of litter. They looked clean enough to eat off of.
The Last Harem Page 5
